


Finding Religion

by mallyns



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-04
Updated: 2010-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:31:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallyns/pseuds/mallyns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wes finds his religion</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faith

FAITH

His eyes and heart burned. The tears stung as they spilled unchecked down his cheeks. Wesley had been taught that real men don't cry, so he hated to show this weakness, hated being a crybaby, and was ashamed that he couldn't seem to stop. He was too young to understand that sometimes it's alright to cry. That sometimes you need to let out all the pent-up fear and pain. So he prayed that God would grant him the strength to be a real man someday, a real man who did not cry.

He could hear people moving above him, walking up and down the steps. His father's booming voice was loud and clear, even though he was on the second floor of the house.

"Do you know what your son did today?"

It always started like that, his father's booming voice, followed by his mother's soft murmur. Today was no different.

He curled up in a ball, slowly rocking back and forth, unconsciously giving physical form to his restless mind. The dark was slowly pressing in on him, stealing his breath. A small sliver of golden light peeked in from under the door. It was his only saving grace and even though he wanted to close his eyes, he kept them glued to the light. The darkness was supposed to make a man out of him; at least that's what his Father told him every time he was shoved in the tiny closet under the stairs that smelled of old booze and rotting wood.

To chase away the demons, the monsters that hid in the dark, Wesley took to whispering the Lord's Prayer. For it was said that if you were stalwart and true, believing in God our Father, then no evil creature could hurt you. He prayed and prayed until his voice became raspy and his lips refused to move. He could feel his faith deep inside, nestled somewhere below his heart, except when he was locked under the stairs. When Wesley was bad and being punished, his faith was diminished. He felt that since he was bad and a failure to his father that he didn't deserve God's protection. Yet he still prayed.

He hated this place. It was here that he had learned to be scared of spiders. It wasn't the simple fact that he could feel them crawling on his skin, unable to get away. It was worse than that. Worse than his worst nightmare, which was to be trapped in a coffin and buried alive. Worse, because he'd found out the hard way that he was allergic to spider venom, that a spider's bite was deadly to him.

He lost count of the trips to hospital. Lost count of how many times his body swelled and his breathing stopped. He lost count of how many times he prayed that the bright light that blinded him wasn't the overhead lights of the hospital, but the welcoming light of heaven. Just after he lost count, he gave up hope.

Just when you fail, when you've reached the end and there is nothing left to live for, something always happens. Perhaps it's a cosmic twist of fate, or maybe it's because you haven't suffered enough, no matter what you have been through. Perhaps it's fate, or just a coincidence, or maybe, just maybe, your guardian angel has finally taken an interest in you and decided that it's time to give you back that hope.

Whatever it was or however it happened, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce found himself, bags packed and at the train station early on a chilly September morning. He was being sent away, not as punishment but as a reward for having the highest marks in his class. He was going to boarding school, with tear-filled eyes, but they weren't tears of loss and pain, they were tears of joy and jubilation.

He was saved. His prayers had finally been answered. His faith in God was reborn. All those nights he'd spent locked away, praying, hadn't been for naught. His father told him that he was going to follow in the footsteps of his family. He was to be a Watcher. At the train station he pledged to his father that he was going to be the best Watcher. That he wouldn't fail this time.

His father just nodded and turned his back on Wesley. There weren't to be any tearful good-byes, no long hugs or promises of weekly letters, only stiff upper lips. But Wes didn't cry, he just smiled. His mother had given him a handkerchief of pear drop candies, for the train ride. She wasn't allowed to see him off, as his father wanted to avoid a scene.

On the train he sat looking out of the window. He sucked on the candy and flipped through the worn bible. Its cover was beat-up and the gilded edges were loosing their luster. The Bible was old and was his father's when he was small. It was given to him the day he proved to his father he could read Latin. On the inside cover was his father's name. Roger Wyndam-Pryce. Under that Wes had scribbled his name and the date it was given to him. Wesley also knew that one day he would past it to his son; even though he was only seven and thought girls were icky. His father was clear about this tradition and Wes' role in upholding it.

So with sticky fingers he pulled out his journal. The journal was brand new, with a black leather cover and blank pages. He wrote on the first page with shaky handwriting, for inspiration:

How blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob, Whose hope is in the LORD his God, Who made heaven and earth, The sea and all that is in them; Who keeps faith forever; Who executes justice for the oppressed; Who gives food to the hungry. The LORD sets the prisoners free. The LORD opens {the eyes of} the blind; The LORD raises up those who are bowed down; The LORD loves the righteous; The LORD protects the strangers; He supports the fatherless and the widow, But He thwarts the way of the wicked.

This was the type of man his father was, this was what he wanted to be. He closed the journal and smiled. He adjusted his glasses and kissed his Bible, in an act of devotion. Inside his shirt he could feel his small gold cross, pressing against his skin, warm with his faith. Young Wesley didn't yet realize that sometimes there are worse fates, and the hell you give up is heaven compared to the hell that awaits.


	2. Hope

HOPE

Seven-year-old Wesley arrived at the boarding school in Southern Hampshire. He knew he was one among hundreds. He smiled shyly at the other boys. Not even being in a new place and far from home for the first time could taint his enthusiasm, for he had finally found his home. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the tasks ahead. His father had told him over and over that he mustn't do anything to bring shame to the Wyndam-Pryce name. That Wesley must graduate in the top one percent of his class each year. It was the only time his father spoke kindly to him and it was something Wes wanted to achieve, more than anything. He couldn't get enough of the strange archaic languages, the rhythm of words. Learning was Wesley's stimulant, his drug. His only interests were books, in which his nose could usually be found buried. . .and fencing.

How he loved fencing. The flashes of steal catching the light, gleaming like jewels, screaming in pain and anger when one blade was hit against another. The swishing sound as the foil slashed through the air. It smelled so strongly of blood, he could almost taste it. The metallic twang was sweet against Wes' tongue. He decided if he couldn't be a Watcher, he wanted to be a sword swallower.

But these were the only times he felt at peace. It was the hope of something better, because his salvation had become a living hell. It was darker than his closet. Harder and colder than his father's hand upon his flesh ever could be. Instead of only one tormentor, he now had many.

The other boys took an instant dislike to him. They hated his innocent blue eyes and soft brown hair. The paleness of his skin was quickly marred with bruises and cuts. The boys would push him to the flagstones; they would kick and punch him until he bled, until he cried out in pain. This only made the boys hit him harder.

He learned to hide, in the dark. The same dark that once terrified him became his savior, his constant companion. He hid under desks, between shelf stacks. Curled up with an old leather-bound book, he squinted to read the tiny print in the shadows.

Going to meals were the worst. The professors turned a blind eye to the tables as long as no food was thrown or any fights broke out. Every table's centerpiece was a cross. Whenever Wesley went to a meal, he would find slivers of the cross in his food. He always ate alone and didn't understand how that could happen. Wesley hated eating alone, watching the other boys laugh and kid with one another. So he learned that he didn't need to eat much, not because he wasn't hungry. Oh no, on the contrary he was starving. But he learned to shut out the gnawing pains, and the nausea. Learned to eat what he could and as fast as he could. His mother sent him care packages, with homemade cookies. He kept them hidden in a hollowed-out Bible.

Later, when he was older, he realized that his intelligence was another way to save his skin. He started selling completed assignments to the other boys for money, for protection and for food, until a professor caught him and had him caned. Later still, when he was much older, heading into his late teens, he learned that he could get out of certain professors' punishment by going down on his knees.

The professors were the first then came other students. Late night experiments which only happened because of lack of sleep and too much communal wine.

Wes' loved hiding out with his roommate in the confessional. It was a cheep thrill, knowing that anyone could walk in on them at any given moment, but he felt safe and loved in God's house.

The smell of incense and the faint sounds of prayer in Latin, covered up any faint moans that escaped his lips. He was drunk on the taste of flesh and the feeling of hope that quickened his heart.


	3. Charity

CHARITY

It started out with Wesley acting manly. The unkempt beard, the dirt and grease under his nails, from his Big Dog motorcycle. The dusty black leather pants and jacket. The rogue demon hunter, a man's man, who laughed in the face of danger.

But he was a fraud, and he knew it. Fired from the Council, he couldn't even afford the return trip home. His father wouldn't take any more of his phone calls after the first one.

"You need to learn to be a man, Wesley. God only knows that I have tried to instill that in you time and time again." His father's voice was heavy with disappointment.

"Yes, Father I understand, but if you would -"

"No Wesley. You need to learn to stand on your own. I will not send you money. Don't even think about calling your Mother and asking her for the money. End of discussion."

"Yes Father, I understand."

 

The line went dead and so Wes left, to make his own mark in the world. Broke and starving, he took the only job that he was trained for. He hunted demons. It was a thankless job that didn't pay much. Just enough to keep gas in his bike and supplies in the first aid-kit. Several months later he ended up on the doorstep of the only vampire in the world to have a soul.

Angel took him in and made him part of the team. Wesley often thought it was from a small kinship. After all, Angel knew what it was like to live on the streets and go for days without food. It was more than Wes felt he deserved, certainly more than he had ever hoped for. It was more than his own flesh and blood would do for him. So, with an eagerness to belong, he pledged his fealty to Angel.

 

"I am your faithful servant."

Somehow that translated into being Angel's puppy, or his bitch. Wes didn't mind either way, just as long as he wasn't cast out into the cold. The streets weren't safe for anyone. Not only does one need to worry about muggers, rapists and drug dealers, one also must watch out for vampires and other nefarious demons.

Slowly over time and many bloody fights, late nights with musty books, tea being replaced with something harder and more intoxicating, Wes found something he never thought he would experience. A real family. He learned that true families were often not the ones into which a person was born, but the ones you cried, sweat and bled with. They were the ones who watched your back, without you asking them, they were the ones you would take a bullet for. They were the ones for whom you would kill.

Correction. He was the one for whom you would kill. Angel, with his soulful eyes and kissable lips. His body was the body you worshiped, his pale and masculine form, the chiseled chest and broad shoulders. His body you would devour. He is your messiah, your Christ.

Wesley is still unclear on how it happened; he just knows that he would be lost without Angel. It was simple touches at first. Then quick kisses behind closed doors. Then one night Wes was baptized at the Church of Angel. Wes' bed was the baptismal fount, and blood, sweat and semen replaced the holy water.

Every kiss was a prayer, every thrust was a sermon and every moment Angel lost a part of his soul. Till there was nothing left but the demon.

"This is the body of Christ." Wes thinks as he licks the pale form, lips grazing Angel's navel. As he licks Angel's thick erection, tasting the salty-sweet pre-come.

"This is the blood of Christ." Wes' mouth is sucking hard on the small, self-inflicted wound on Angel's neck. Tasting the power and darkness of the demon.

Wes looked up into the vampire's golden eyes, smiled and bared his neck. He's found his place, kneeling at his Sire's feet. As Angelus bites savagely into the former Watcher's throat, drinking deeply, Wes realizes that even though it took him his entire life, he has all eternity to worship.

Wes finally found his religion. In the arms of his Angel.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Psalms 146


End file.
